Night Shift
by A Damned Scientist
Summary: John has a bad night. A really bad night. He hopes it was just the food poisoning messing with his head.


**Night Shift (R)**

Setting and Spoilers and Warnings: Sometime early-mid S3. May or may not be AU. Caveat lector. Lots of weirdness and some possibly disturbing bits: torture, bad behaviour, Farscapian bad language, general mind-frellyness.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I've only borrowed them for the night and by the morning Henson and co wont even be sure whether I took them or not.

Thanks to JJ for the beta(s). If you think this fic is troubled now, you should have seen the earlier drafts. Anything which you don't like in this is my fault: Chances are JJ tried to talk me out of it. And I have to thank him for reworking some of my prose into some fine sentences, too.

Words: 4299

**Night Shift (R)**

Things were not going his way, John Crichton thought to himself bitterly. But then again, these days, when did they ever? After Aeryn had been brought back from the dead and she had told him she loved him he had thought, had hoped, that everything was going to work out. That everything was going to start getting better. Yeah, right. Along with everything else about his life out in the butt-crack of the universe, it was a case of one step forward, three steps back. Oh, and a step sideways and a quick spin-around-on-the-spot-till-dizzy into the bargain.

Now, as if that wasn't enough, something he had eaten at third meal seemed to have decided to violently disagree with him. This made whatever-it-was just the latest thing in the long line of things out here in the UT's to do so. He suspected the cheese. At least, he had decided to call it cheese. It was more comforting that way. He really didn't want to think what the creamy, blue-veined stuff actually was, and he was pretty certain no one on Moya would give him a straight answer if he asked.

Morosely, starting to clutch at his aching gut, and wondering just how bad it was going to get this time, John made his way to his cell. Naturally, it was empty, despite Aeryn's now-confessed feelings for him. For reasons of her own on which he was not at all clear at that precise microt, there seemed to be more chance that he would find Rygel in there casing the joint than Officer Sun wanting to further their so-called relationship.

Pausing only to dim the lights, John pulled up something resembling a bucket and, with a groan, collapsed onto the bed.

Why was it always night when the worst dren happened?

'~~~~~'

"Lights!" John groaned. It must have been the middle of ship's night. He had tried to sleep through his feverish nausea but with only limited success. After several arns of fitful tossing and turning, skirting round the edges of sleep, drifting back and forth across the threshold, but never seeming to quite settle there, it was time to give up. It was time to try to find something to fill the long, dark night of the gut-rot.

Eyes barely open, stomach and head protesting and clouding his thoughts, John shuffled from the cell and, without any objective especially in mind, started to make his way through the dimly lit corridors.

"~~~~~~"

John's shuffling steps brought him down the corridor past what everyone called Aeryn's work-out room. Other members of the crew, primarily he and D'Argo, used it, of course, but Aeryn was the one who truly owned it. The door was closed, but a crack of light shone round the edge, and noises from within indicated that someone was having quite a workout. Good. Be it D'Argo or Aeryn, he didn't mind. He could use the company right now.

He leant against the curved wall for a few microts, breathing heavily whilst he tried to establish dominance over his churning stomach and swimming vision. Careful not to disturb whoever was working out inside, he edged the door open and peered through the crack. He hoped, despite his protesting guts and aching head, to see Aeryn gyrating in her tight, sweaty work-out clothes.

What he actually saw took his breath away far more than his lewd imaginings.

Pirouetting around the workout dummy with lightning speed, delivering a flurry of blows by foot, hand and head, was a small, green form. It was like watching Yoda at work. John blinked twice, trying to check that his eyes were not malfunctioning. He tried to decide whether or not to call out, to disturb Rygel. But something stopped him. Rygel suddenly looked a thousand times more dangerous than John had ever imagined. It seemed likely that Rygel would not want anyone to know about his impressive martial arts skills. Indeed, knowing Rygel, he might react violently should he think the truth had been discovered.

Through a fog of nausea and clouded thoughts John struggled to process the surprise and incredulity he knew that he should be feeling. This just wasn't the Rygel that he knew and barely tolerated. It was like some strange inversion of that Rygel. But his head didn't feel up to the task of contesting the evidence of his eyes. After a moment of shallow reflection John decided that some secrets were probably safest keeping. He filed the startling memory for future reference, pulled the door shut silently and, pausing only to give his head a chance to stop swimming, headed onwards.

'~"

As John approached the galley he saw D'Argo was already there. D'Argo was sitting with his back to the galley door, a huge pile of flimsies splayed out in front of him across the table. But, at that moment, D'Argo did not seem to be reading the flimsies. He was bent over something smaller, which was also lying on the table.

"No, no, no!" John heard D'Argo mutter. He seemed to have some sort of writing stylus in one hand and a bottle of something John recognized as the UT's version of Tippex in the other. Something was clearly engrossing the big Luxan. John took a step or two forward, about to call out and ask what was up when he froze mid step.

"Stupid, elementary mistake!" The Luxan muttered, reaching out for the Tippex-like substance and using it to dissolve something written on the thing in front of him. Then he held the item up to blow it dry.

John's heart nearly jumped out of his throat. D'Argo was holding up John's own journal. And the page it was open on was full of wormhole equations. John was about to cry out in protest when a scream came from somewhere behind him. It was not a pleasant sound, reaching deep into John's subconscious and causing him to fade into the shadows and slip away from the galley. D'Argo had never shown a sign of knowing he was there.

As his head cleared momentarily John wondered whether he ought to double back and ask D'Argo whether he had heard the scream and to join him in investigating it. However, he must have been in the eye of the food poisoning storm, because just then a new wave of pain and nausea overtook him and he folded over onto the floor. When John finally returned to his feet and lurched back to the galley there was no sign of the Luxan.

'~'

The screams were coming from the next tier down. It was one of the many levels on Moya that was unfrequented as it was surplus to the requirements of a small crew. John crept slowly forwards down the dimly lit corridors, with their long, deep shadows, drawing ever closer to the strange, chilling screams. Why was no-one else responding to the sounds? Could only he hear them? Or more worryingly, was everyone else familiar with the noises and as such unconcerned by them? He reached for his comm to summon back-up, his muggy head causing him to forget that he was not wearing it. His nausea prevented him from thinking straight as he then decided that he'd just have to investigate the source of the noise on his own.

The last sequence of screams had sounded almost like a musical piece, as though they were tuned and were being made to some pre-defined order. John shuddered at his overactive imagination and tried to ignore the thought.

The shrieks were coming from an ostensibly unused cell up ahead: Light spilled out into the darkened corridor through the door grating, guiding him directly the last few steps to the source of the screams. It was in an area which John couldn't recall ever doing more than swiftly passing through. John apprehensively peered round the corner, into the cell.

The sight that met him was like something out of a horror movie.

Stark was dancing around, like some manic glockenspiel player before a large frame. It had so many odd angles and seemingly randomly added parts it must have been of his own construction. Every microt or so, Stark lunged forward and dug or prodded at something on the frame with one of two long, sharp probes he held, one in each hand. Each lunge was accompanied by a scream.

John was repelled to see that stretched out on the frame were maybe two dozen small critters. They were mostly were trill bats from Moya's depths, but there were several other critters too, both larger and smaller, some of which he recognized from recent planets and trading stations they had recently visited.

"What the hell are you doing?" John cried out, barging into the room towards Stark.

Stark turned, grinning maniacally, his madness and inner torment glinting in his one eye. He waved the probes menacingly at John, who stepped back through the doorway to prevent being caught or impaled by one of them.

"You should never disturb an … artist… at work!" Stark raved, swiping the door mechanism and shutting the grate behind him. He flashed John a grin full of teeth and gestured around the room. "My side," he began then he waved the probe through the grate. "Your side!" he concluded triumphantly. Then, with a high pitched laugh, Stark returned to his nightmarish instrument and began playing again.

"Stark!" John shouted over the screams. But Stark showed no sign of hearing. John palmed the door release but nothing happened. His hand went to his thigh, but his holster was not there. Frelling food poisoning, clouding his head! "Stark!"

"Oh, sweet, heavenly music!" Stark sing-songed with rapturous madness, a tear now trickling down his cheek. John's hand went to where his comms badge would normally be, but there was still nothing there, either.

"Stark! For the love of Zhaan! Stop!" John cried. But it was no use. Stark could not or would not hear him, blind and deaf to all but the tortured construct in his cell. It seemed to John as though, despite Stark's words, the Stykera was in his own way as tormented as the beasts in his frame.

Giving the door grate one last frustrated kick, desperately trying to put the sights and sounds to the back of his mind, John hurried off towards Pilot's den.

'~'

John tumbled through the doorway and, alternately clutching his aching belly and head, lurched his way across the vertiginous walkway towards Pilot.

"Pilot!" John called out as he staggered the last few steps towards the den. The food poisoning, combined with the nightmare he had just witnessed down below, combined to throw him completely off-balance and make the narrow walkways even more of a challenge than usual.

"Commander?" Pilot retorted, scarcely looking up from whatever he was doing long enough to reply.

"What the HELL is going on?" John asked, leaning heavily on the outer buttress of the console. His tortured guts rumbled a loud protest.

"Going on?" Pilot frowned. "Nothing, as far as Moya and I are aware: It is the night cycle."

"Mmm…. Yah!" John replied in his best Bill-and-Ted manner. "Everyone is up. And everyone is behaving verrrry strangely."

"I shall check. One moment please," Pilot asked, still barely bothering to glance at John. "Hmm, no. The DRDs and Moya all report that everything aboard is within expected parameters…."

"But everyone is up! Awake!" John interrupted anxiously.

"Well, that is perfectly normal, Commander," He looked at John pityingly for a microt. John stared back, incomprehension overflowing through every expression on the human's face and body.

"Normal!"

"Of course Commander: As far as I am aware, it is only your species which suffers from diurnal catatonia." Pilot stated, before lowering his eyes back to his console.

"Bull…shit!" John spluttered.

"Really, Commander, such language is quite unnecessary. And I assure you that it is so. Moya's databanks are quite extensive."

"What? What, so you're telling me that every night Rygel does his Yoda impression, D'Argo's Dr Von Braun and Stark's goes all Hannibal Lector.…?"

"I have no idea who those people are, as you well know," Pilot stated.

"It doesn't matter who they are!" John snapped back. "Thing is, they're all acting like completely different people! And Stark is going all psycho-killer on a bunch of critters downstairs…"

"It is my observation, Commander, that each individual has a multitude of interests and is capable of exhibiting a number of different behaviours," Pilot replied like a parent whose patience was being strained. He paused momentarily for effect. "Even you, Commander. Although your spectrum of interests and behaviours does seem to be more limited than most…"

"Hey, you know what Pilot…? Whatever…. I'm gonna go and have another word with someone, maybe Aeryn, see if I can't get to the bottom of all this! Put a stop to Stark's behaviour!"

"The bottom of all what?" Pilot called after him. John continued resolutely, if unsteadily, on his way, so Pilot simply shrugged and went back to his business at the console.

"~"

After swinging by his room to pick up his comms badge and Winona John hurried the last few yards down the corridor to Aeryn's quarters. John palmed the mechanism and wandered into Aeryn's cell without knocking.

Luckily for John's health, she wasn't there. He tapped his comms badge.

"Aeryn?" he called. His own word echoed back at him from the Aeryn's comms badge, which lay on the nearby table. "Frell!" John exclaimed. "Pilot, where's Aeryn?"

"Tier seventeen, treblin side, bow section, long term storage," Pilot supplied. "But, umm, Commander?" Pilot added, even as John headed out the door. "She is quite emphatic about not being disturbed when she is…"

But John was not listening. What little wisdom he had had deserted him some arns ago.

The long term storage was an elongated, arced room, dimly lit and cluttered. Its ceiling was low at best and gracefully curved down to intersect with the floor, following, as it did, the curve of Moya's hull. As he entered, John's eyes struggled to adjust to the lighting: He could not see or hear Aeryn.

"Aeryn!" He called out. There was a long silence. "AERYN!" He called again. "You in here?"

"No! Frell off!" she snapped back from somewhere up ahead.

Unwisely undeterred, John blundered deeper into the chamber. A bunch of twisted, misshapen forms, some humanoid, slowly came into view. One of them resolved into Aeryn.

A microt later she was in his face, standing toe-to-toe with him, anger flashing in her eyes.

"What the frell do you want, Crichton?" she snarled at him. "You're supposed to be asleep!"

While his mind struggled to come up with an answer, his eyes swivelled from side to side. The far side of the chamber was full of what he could only describe as sculptures, fashioned in a variety of media. Some were abstract, some looked like plants, some were clearly meant to be some sort of critter. Some were even life-sized humanoids.

"Um, err, I was err… worried about you…." He stumbled, his brain trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling him.

"Well, you shouldn't be. I'm fine, Crichton. Just fine!" She repeated emphatically. His eyes informed his brain that she was covered in the detritus of an artist in full spate. Although his brain didn't believe his eyes, his mouth seemed to do so without trouble.

"Hey, babe, this stuff is good, why didn't you say you….." he began.

"This is my place. Mine!" She snapped back defensively, prodding his chest with one clay-encrusted dirty finger for emphasis. "I want to be alone. You can come up and see me sometime in my quarters, but not here. Understand?" She waved some sort of chisel in his face for emphasis. "Understand?"

"Ohhhh….. Kay…" he placated her, backing off slowly, hands raised in an effort to calm her. If Aeryn wanted a creative hobby, if she wanted to keep it private…. And most importantly if he wanted to keep his mivonks never mind to get them and her into bed together anytime soon… well, all that was just fine with him. "Your secret's safe with me, honey," he continued as he reached the door. She stalked after him like a tiger on the prowl until they stood just denches apart, either side of the threshold.

"Hmm…." She growled. "Make sure it is." She finished, palming the door mechanism. The solid door slammed a final warning whilst shutting him out of her private space.

'~'

A short time later John was back in the galley, alone, nursing a drink, a swirling head and a strong urge to vomit. He was trying to process all that he had witnessed during the last couple of arns. Maybe he should just head off back to bed and try to forget it all?

He took another swig, then nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand fell onto his shoulder. He turned, worried as to what he might see.

Chiana grinned at him cheekily. "Hey old man, watcher doin' up?"

"Jeez, Chiana, you scared the living daylights out of me," he responded. Well, so far at least, Chiana was behaving normally.

"As it should be," she giggled, settling opposite him. She picked up the bottle and squinted at it.

"Did you know Aeryn turns into some sort of Marlene Dietrich-cum-Michelangelo every night?"

Chiana ignored the incomprehensible Crichtonism. "Having trouble sleeping, huh?" She asked, slamming the bottle down. He winced. She tilted her head sharply, lips apart, as though waiting for something. Or thinking. He nodded. "I'll fix you something," She stood and turned. "Help you sleep."

"Thanks, Chi," He said as she started mixing something up for him at the counter. "Hey, have you noticed anything funny going on tonight?"

Walking back towards him, concoction in hand, she cocked her head and smiled. "No more'n usual. Except you wandering around, of course. That's weird." She laughed. He would normally have enjoyed the sound, but not tonight.

"Do you know what Stark gets up to at night?"

"Hey, the less I know about what floats Freakazoid's boat the better, far as I'm concerned." Chiana stated. John grunted in agreement.

She handed him the drink and he took a swig. "That'll knock you right out. C'mon, best get you back to your cell," she supplied, fidgeting from head to toe with her usual surplus of nervous energy. "While we still can…"

Chiana wasn't kidding about the potency of her potion. The last few yards to his room were a struggle. He was falling asleep on his feet and the diminutive Nebari was not up to supporting his full weight.

As Chiana released him, John slumped over onto his bed, his voice already gone, his eyesight and hearing now starting to fail him. John remembered someone telling him once that hearing was the last sense to go, but he couldn't put his finger on who had told him or when. He could just make out another figure entering the room. All was growing increasingly indistinct, but the newcomer seemed to have a black leather outfit and red ringlets. A woman's voice spoke quietly, familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time.

_"Is it safe?"_

_"The others are all busy as usual. I reckon we have about an arn. Is he ready?"_

_"Yeah. D'you wanna go first this time?"_

_"If you do not have the stomach for this, then you can leave, Chiana."_

_"Nah, I've got my mission too, Jool."_

_"Fine. Just remember, tonight could be the night we get…" _

Blackness took John and he remembered no more.

"~"

John awoke with a start and a mouth like the bottom of a bird cage. His head was still fuzzy and his stomach ached as though it had been hollowed out. Otherwise, the worst of the cheese-poisoning seemed to be gone. Oops, he'd been a bit too premature in thinking that, he thought, as he gagged and his head swirled once more. Better get the bucket….

Memories of the night before flashed across his mind's eye, some he thought were clearly dreams. In the cold light of day, others….. he was not so sure. He remembered he had been ill all night, and had slipped in and out of sleep. But what was a dream and what was not? He moved slightly and winced: Various, remote parts of his body protested discomforts that, relative to his head and guts, they surely ought to have had no right to feel.

His shipmates seemed to be behaving just as his rational mind told him they should be, back to their normal selves. Aeryn even blanked him when he tried to snag her hand for a comforting squeeze when he dropped into the galley for a drink of water. Yep, no change there, he reflected. No-one present in the galley mentioned last night and John, not wanting to look foolish and increasingly convinced it had all been a bad dream, decided not to ask. Besides, if he brought any of it up and it turned out to be true, he could foresee an even deeper shitstorm immediately enveloping him.

Still feeling more than a little queasy, unsteady on his feet and nervous around his shipmates he decided to skip breakfast for now and head off to Pilot's den. He'd promised to fix a conduit in there yesterday and had never gotten around to it.

It was a simple, quick job, ideal for his state of body and mind.

Task completed, he stood up and stretched his back and blinked his eyes. He'd have to pop by the infirmary, see if he could get something to clear his head and something else to settle his stomach.

"All done, Pilot. Shouldn't give you any more trouble now," John told him, stooping again to pack up his tools.

"Moya and I thank you, Commander," Pilot replied.

"Pilot, umm, just one thing…" John asked.

"Yes, Commander?"

"The others…"

"Others?"

"Y'know, the others on Moya. They do, umm, sleep, don't they?"

"Sleep?" Pilot stopped what he was doing and looked directly at John, frowning. John couldn't remember Pilot giving so much attention at once to a simple question. "Oh, diurnal catatonia?"

"Mmm, yup, that'd, umm, would be it," John confirmed, growing increasingly uneasy at Pilot's use of the familiar phrase from last night.

"No, Commander. Yours is the only species I am aware of with that affliction. We only have day and night cycles because they exist on most planets and most crews seem to like to compartmentalize their activities." Now it was John's turn to frown. More than that, he looked down at his feet, and kicked at imaginary dust motes for a few microts, and so was not sure whether he had imagined Pilot's grin. "Is there anything else?" Pilot asked, but by now John was already turning to leave. "Commander!" Pilot cried out as John tripped over his own tools. But it was too late, John was already falling….

'~'

"I think he's coming round!" Chiana called from what seemed like the bottom of the ocean.

"John!" came Aeryn's voice, sweet with concern, but sounding like it was muffled by a dozen blankets

"Everybody but Aeryn, out!" That was Jool, from close at hand. John forced his eyes open.

"Mmm, what….?" He began, screwing his eyes up against the harsh light. His gut hurt. His head hurt. Other, remoter bits hurt too. Doubtless, which bits would become clearer to him soon.

"We think you ate something which was bad for you," Aeryn explained from close by. He could feel her comforting presence more than see it.

"Then you must have fallen over in your quarters when you were sick." Jool continued from above his head.

"Or fallen out of bed…" Aeryn snorted, running a cool hand across his aching forehead. "I… we… were worried," she added, softening the effect of her derision.

Was it all really just a bad dream, John asked himself? Nothing more than a cheese-induced, sleep-deprived hallucination? And, if not, did he really want to know?

"How are you feeling?" Aeryn asked.

"Like I've just gone ten rounds with Rygel," John joked, testing the water. No reaction from Aeryn, except for the expected "stupid human" frown of incomprehension. Jool, working away behind him out of sight didn't seem to react either.

"Here, drink this," Jool, now standing on the other side of him from Aeryn, thrust a beaker of something at him.

He looked at it reluctantly, remembering the Jool of last night. "It will make you feel better," she added, irritation that he had not yet drunk it, perhaps not fully trusting her, evident in her tone. John shrugged, steeled himself and drank.

It did indeed make him feel better.

"Aeryn," he said, a little while later.

"Hmm?" His hand was in hers and she rubbed her thumb casually along the back of his.

"I'm feeling a lot better now."

"Good," she replied absent-mindedly. The thumb-rubbing continued.

"Let's blow this place. Go for a little walk." An icy chill gripped John's chest as he noted that her affectionate thumb-rubbing had abruptly stopped.

There was a short silence. Even Jool seemed to have stopped doing whatever she was doing, perhaps listening in.

"Where did you have in mind?" Aeryn asked, both her voice and face flat, betraying nothing.

"Ummm," John demurred, wondering what in hezmanna to say. "How about Tier Seventeen, Treblin bow section?" he whispered, his voice shaking with terrified anticipation. He flashed Aeryn a nervous grin. Her fingers curled and tightened around his hand.

"Why?" she asked, her face an unreadable mask. John shuddered and gagged and a fresh wave of nausea swept over him.

The end


End file.
